Wake Up
by whitchry9
Summary: Written for a prompt. John keeps seeing those words everywhere. At first he thinks Sherlock's leaving notes for himself, but soon it moves to other things, things that even Sherlock can't be controlling. But what the hell do they mean? 3 parts, TRIGGER WARNINGs abound, not using because spoilers. Read at own risk. Sad. Angst. Feels. The usual (and more!)
1. Chapter 1

**AN- Written for a prompt. Prompt does contain spoilers, so it will be posted at the end. Warnings for non-con and violence, so if you don't like, don't read.**

* * *

Nightmares were always there. Ella told him that was normal after coming back from war, being injured, returning to a normal civilian life.

Except these dreams weren't of that.

He could never remember them clearly when he awoke, which was probably a good thing, but there was no bright sun, no sand, no dirt. It wasn't Afghanistan.

He did remember men.

_Cool night air, because it was night, or just dark, since he couldn't seem to see, but then there were hands and the pavement was meeting his face and -_

He woke up with a start, breathing heavily. But it was gone already. All that remained was flashes of voices shouting. They could have been his own. Maybe there had been sand. It was hard to tell in the dark. That was the problem with dreams. He could never be sure of them.

He limped around his small room, and made an attempt at writing his blog post, like Ella told him to. But the cursor only blinked at him.

He went to therapy and lied to her about the blog, which she knew.

"Nothing happens to me," he told her.

And he was fairly certain that bit was true.

* * *

And lo and behold, miracle of miracles, something finally happened to John.

One very big thing.

Sherlock Holmes.

And he life erupted into late night chases, illegal firearms, kidnappings, criminal activities, and periods in between where his mad flatmate would shoot at the wall, store experiments in the fridge, and drug him for science.

He didn't go back to see Ella any more.

Perhaps it was because he didn't want to admit he was wrong; things could, and did, happen to him.

Of course, it was more likely because he was _happy._

* * *

He still had nightmares, but they weren't as violent, not as shocking, and nowhere near as frequent.

Sherlock may have fixed his psychosomatic limp, but he couldn't repair his fractured psyche. Wouldn't that be magnificent.

Even the famous Sherlock Holmes wasn't that great.

_("What a tender world that would be...")_

* * *

There was a sticky note on the mirror one morning as he went to brush his teeth.

_Wake up._

John didn't know why there would be a note telling someone to wake up on the mirror, when they obviously had to be awake to get there.

He crumpled it up and threw it in the bin. Perhaps he'd speak with Sherlock about that.

Or perhaps it would be better if he didn't.

He'd asked Sherlock about things like that before, and the answers he'd gotten were less than helpful, to say the least.

Some things, like the body parts on the counter, were best addressed, and other things, like this, were best left alone.

* * *

_Five of them, and only him it was dark and no one would be able to hear him scream, not that he could, since one of them had a giant hand clasped over his mouth and he'd already tried biting it, but that only made him swear and kick him again and then there was his belt being undone and oh god he knew what was happening now, no someone please-_

He woke up screaming, but as soon as his eyes were open, he couldn't remember why.

It took him nearly an hour to calm down, and there was no chance of him sleeping again that night.

Sherlock must have heard him, but didn't come upstairs, instead choosing to play his violin in the living room, soothing tunes that John drifted on the edge of consciousness to. By the time it was light out, he felt like he might actually be able to face the world, with the help of a lot of tea to keep him from falling asleep.

Days like that never tended to go well, but this one was looking better than most.


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade came to retrieve them for a case.

It had been a boring week, and John was glad for the interruption. Sherlock was probably going to start counting individual mould spores or something.

"The victim left a suicide note," Lestrade said. "Really weird, so I thought you'd want to take a look."

Something strange passed across Sherlock's face that John couldn't recognize, and he nodded.

"Coming John?"

What else would he do?

They never went in the police car, but always trailed behind in a taxi. John questioned it sometimes, but didn't really want to delve into that particular issue, especially on that day. Maybe eventually, perhaps Sherlock would even share, but John was fairly certain that day was not today.

Instead he looked out the window and wondered what could have been so strange about a suicide note that he thought to call Sherlock it. The only other time that had happened was with the serial suicides, and those hadn't even turned out to be suicides. Perhaps Lestrade was suspecting something along the same lines again?

John sighed, watching his breath mist up the glass of the window for a moment before disappearing.

* * *

John didn't see what was so special about the crime. The scene was normal, for a crime scene anyway. Abandoned building, one victim, female, wrists cut open. She hadn't been dead long, maybe since the previous night. Sherlock would be able to tell, and if not here, at the morgue. There was nothing unusual about the scene. Perhaps it was the victim?

The victim _and yeah, she was a victim, even if she did this to herself, because no one picks suicide as a first resort, he should know, _was a woman, in her twenties. Lestrade hadn't been able to identify her yet, since she was found with no identification, and no one had reported her missing. Yet, anyway. John had to hope that someone would indeed miss her.

"Sexual assault," Sherlock said before even going near her.

Lestrade nodded. "Likely."

"No, definitely. She was raped, likely by more than one man, five going by the footprints. They beat her, but no where that is noticeable. She died before the bruises could develop on her soft tissues. They made sure not to hit her face." He frowned. "They probably thought she wouldn't report them. I guess they were right."

John swallowed. "Yeah, instead she just bled out."

Sherlock glanced at him, concern evident for a split second before his neutral expression returned.

"Yes, she did. But she left us a note."

He gestured to the crumbled ball near her right hand, ink smears obvious. John couldn't make out any of the words, but there weren't many things it could be. No one bothered to write a grocery list as they were dying.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade. "May I?"

He shrugged. "Everything's been photographed, so go for it. Just don't tell Anderson."

Sherlock snorted, and carefully extracted the piece of paper with his gloved hands.

He unfolded it on the floor, careful not to get it in any of the blood.

John crouched down next to him to read it.

It was smeared in places with ink and blood, and hard to read, but he could still make most of it out. The words that he couldn't, he could certainly fill in the blanks.

_It has been ~~~~~~~~ that some victims ~~~~~~~ would retreat from their world into an act of fantasy from ~~~~~~ could not __**wake up. **__In this ~~~~~~~, the victim lived ~~~~~ world just like their normal one except they weren't ~~~~~~~~~~~. The mind of the victim would often try to __**wake up **__the victim by leaving hints around the victim's world to help them realize ~~~~~ asleep. Sometimes, even after the ~~~~~ knew what was ~~~~~ on, the ~~~~ still refuse to_

The note trailed off suddenly, but underneath the pen scribblings were large letters, drawn in what must have been blood.

_**Wake up.**_

John felt cold. Nothing about this case was okay. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure, but his heart was uneasy.

Sherlock didn't seem phased.

"That is strange," John commented, trying to keep his voice steady. "How did you know it said that?" he asked Lestrade, straightening up.

"I didn't," he said.

John frowned. "Then why did you ask Sherlock to come?"

Lestrade looked confused for a moment, but Sherlock intervened before he could speak.

"I need to check the rest of the building. Lestrade, have some of your men watch the front. John, come with me around back."

John nodded, and followed, trying to shake off the unease that this case had brought him.

"What do you think she was doing? Did she think that this wasn't real? Was she delusional, trying to wake up, not knowing she was already awake?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know yet." He pointed to an alley around back of the house. "You go that way," he ordered.

As John went where he directed, he couldn't help but think he heard Sherlock mutter something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like _"maybe she was right..."_

But that would be ridiculous.

Ten steps into the alley and John realized he had no clue what the hell he was supposed to be doing. He paused, looking at the surrounding buildings. 'WAKE UP' was graffitied on the wall in front of him in bold, red letters.

There was a pain in his head. Someone yelled, but not him. _Sherlock. _

But the pavement was greeting his head, and this was familiar, but he didn't have to time remember how before he faded.


	3. Chapter 3

He woke up in A&E, machines beeping. He shrugged off the doctors, told them he was fine, and stalked off to find Sherlock.

He was in another room, but they wouldn't let him in.

A nurse directed him towards a waiting room nearby, and the beeping seemed to follow him. He sat and waited, but he could hear faint snatches of conversation.

_... leg... heal nicely... shoulder might take longer... neither... least of his worries...trauma...memory..._

John frowned, but he couldn't make any more of it out.

"Is Sherlock alright?" he called to them, but they only glanced at him briefly before looking away. Why were they ignoring him?

He slouched in the chair, feeling rather defeating. It had been an awful day.

* * *

They came to get him after a while, brought him to Sherlock's side. He was asleep, and looked to be fine, except for the cut on his forehead. They let him stay there.

It felt very familiar. He supposed all hospitals were the same, on some level. He'd been in them enough himself to know that.

He sat down in the chair and held Sherlock's hand. It felt right. Familiar.

Like it was where they both belonged.

(But John reminded himself he was a doctor, and Sherlock should not be in that bed, his fault, his fault, no matter what.)

* * *

He didn't seem to have any injuries, and the doctors discharged him after he woke up and moaned about the case.

John had to admit he'd completely forgotten about it.

"The woman who was raped?" Sherlock reminded him.

Oh yes. That would be why he'd forgotten.

Or as Sherlock would say, deleted it.

* * *

They went to the morgue directly from A&E. Molly had just finished the autopsy.

"Head trauma. I found the start of a sub-arachnoid hemorrhage. Her left shoulder was badly injured, dislocated and a number of ligaments were torn. There was also some sort of puncture wound, perhaps a screwdriver. Her right leg was broken, and you were right about the bruises Sherlock. All over her abdomen, back, and torso."

Molly showed him the pictures she'd taken while using the black light. The woman had lit up like a Christmas tree.

"I took DNA samples, but I wouldn't hold out too much hope," she said. "There was no trace of semen, so they likely used condoms." She shook her head. "She was probably the only chance the police would have of identifying them, but she's certainly not going to wake up anytime soon."

John frowned at Molly's choice of words, but Sherlock seemed pleased, and nodded at her.

"Thank you Molly. John," he called as he swooped out, not at all hindered by the events of earlier or the news of the woman's death that John beared like shackles.

He didn't know how Sherlock did it, shrugged deaths off like they were mere annoyances, rather than the loss of one of the most magnificent things in the universe.

John felt burdened down by every death he'd witnessed, every person he couldn't save. No wonder he felt so heavy.

It reminded him of something that someone said, perhaps it was Sherlock.

"_Some people believe that when you die your spirit has to climb a mountain, carrying with it all the souls you wronged in your lifetime. We all carry our prisons with us."_

Although when John heard it in his head, it didn't sound like Sherlock's voice.

Perhaps from somewhere else.

But John rather felt that way.

They went home.

* * *

Sherlock didn't speak about the case when they got back, and John didn't ask. John didn't even say anything until Sherlock spoke.

"John, do you ever wonder if we're dreaming, right now?"

John frowned. "Is this about the case? I mean, the girl was raped Sherlock. It could have caused her to have a psychotic break."

He shook his head. "It's not about the case. Not really."

"Well, what is it about then?"

Sherlock levelled a glance at him. "You."

John paused. "I don't understand."

"I didn't expect so," Sherlock sighed. He shifted in his chair to look at John.

"You. This, all of it, isn't right."

John frowned. "Don't screw with me Sherlock. I'm not in a mood to deal with it."

"I'm not," he insisted. "Just work with me for a minute John. How did you get here?" Sherlock prompted. "Really. I mean, step by step, take me through every major event of your life, in detail."

John shook his head. "I... graduated from uni."

"Who came?" Sherlock prompted. "Was your family there?"

John frowned. "I don't know. But Sherlock, that was a long time ago-"

"What about Afghanistan. How did you enlist?"

"Sherlock, is this really the time-"

"John," he said firmly. "How did you enlist? How did you get there? Where did you train?"

He shook his head wordlessly. "I... don't... I can't remember. It just sort of happened, okay? It happened, and I was shot, and I came back, and I met you, and now we're here and I don't understand what's happening. What _is _happening Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored him.

"What about those nightmares you have?"

John's face flushed. "I don't remember them," he said. And it was half true. He only remembered flashes, images, words. Nothing that made sense as a whole.

"I think you know more than you're saying..." he murmured.

John shook his head.

"Think," Sherlock urged him. "Close your eyes, and think. Remember your dreams."

John squeezed his eyes shut.

_Uni, after classes, late, dark out. He was walking home, a new way, because he liked exploring London, even if it was dark. He was stupid, he was a teenager, he was invincible._

_Five of them, and only him. No one would be able to hear him scream, not that he could, since one of them had a giant hand clasped over his mouth and he'd already tried biting it, but that only made him swear and kick him again and then there was his belt being undone and oh god he knew what was happened now, no someone please, and he fought back but he was small, dammit, and they were five, and there was no hope, not with all those hands all over him, and the pavement was meeting his face and..._

_This was always the part that he woke up at, and he waited for it, but it didn't come, no, stop, please, he begged them, but it might not have been out loud, or maybe it was, but in this world, or the other one, whichever one he was in now, oh god oh god-_

_He missed a bit after that, must have blacked out for the worst of it, thank god, maybe, maybe not, how the hell would he know, maybe he blocked it out, or deleted it like the detective he hadn't met yet would. But next there was blood and there was pain, all over, not just there, in his shoulder and his leg, and oh god his head, but there too, and the shame was too hot and fierce, even though it had always been drilled in their heads, neverthevictimsfault, but god, that was for women, not men, men weren't supposed to get raped, and the word only hurt him more, whether it was inside or out, he couldn't tell. There was a voice, but not Them, because They never spoke to him, only with their hands... but John didn't want the voice near him, he wanted to be alone, probably just to die, that would be better. He opened his eyes to the coaxing and was greeted with a pair of blue, no, green, or maybe grey, ones, and then he was gone again, but to what he wasn't sure-_

His eyes sprung open again.

"No," he whispered. He shook his head violently at Sherlock. "No. I won't believe it. I can't."

Sherlock looked sad. "It doesn't matter if you believe or not. The truth is still true, no matter what you believe."

The truth sank in, and with it, John's heart shattered.

_The note was for me._

"Are you even real?" he whispered.

Sherlock smiled. _Oh god that can't be a good sign. _"Of course I'm real. Just not in this way. You never really make anything up though."

"So you're not... you?"

"I am me as you know me."

John frowned. "I don't understand."

"You must on some level, because I do," Sherlock commented.

John shook his head. "This doesn't make any sense."

"No," he corrected. "You just don't want it to make sense, because you don't want to believe it. But it's true. And it hurts. "

His face softened. "It hurts," he repeated. "But you left yourself that note for a reason. Please wake up John," he pleaded.

He shook his head. "I don't want to. I'm remembering... I'm remembering what happened, and I don't want to be there again. I can't."

Sherlock looked heartbroken, something that John couldn't say he'd seen on the detective before. "I'm not going to say that everything's going to be fine, because I'm you, and I will never lie to you. It's not fine. But you can't keep living in this world, not while there's an entire one out there waiting for you. Not now that you know."

"It won't be the same," John whispered. "You won't be there."

"Yes, and no. It won't be the same, but I will be there."

"How?"

Sherlock smiled at him again, sadly.

"This is me John. This is real. Feel me holding your hand now? I mean _really _feeling it?"

Sherlock was still across the room from him, but John could feel it. The warmth and the pressure and the safety of knowing someone else was there.

"I'm real," he repeated. "Who do you think was the one who found you, who saved you? No wonder you reinvented me as the one who saved you here too. You never really invent anyone in your dreams, just... borrow them from other places."

John only stared at him.

"I'm here John. And I'm waiting. So wake up."

He bounded down the steps, and from the window, John could see him get into a cab. (It did explain why there was always a cab at the ready, his subconscious being kind about one thing.) The cab didn't leave, but instead Sherlock waved at the window for him to come down, sliding in and waiting.

And so slowly, he started heading down the stairs, towards Sherlock waiting in the cab.

He didn't know what was waiting for him out there. He didn't know what year it was, if he still had family, how much of the life he'd imagined had happened or not, but now that he knew, he couldn't continue to stay here.

It would be nice though. Of course it was, he'd invented it to hide from the truth. But he could do it now. He was strong enough, or at least, he would be.

It was time to _wake up._

* * *

**Prompt: (shortened) Inspired by an old creepypasta I recently rediscovered called "Wake Up". During his first year at university, John was beaten and gang-raped by a group of sadistic criminals who nabbed him off the street late one night while he was out alone exploring his new surroundings. Traumatized and suffering from severe physical injuries, he slipped into a deep coma and found his sanctuary in a fantasy world he created in the depths of his own mind. In this world, he lives his life exactly as he was meant to live it, only he is never attacked and doesn't even cross paths with the men who assaulted him. He becomes a doctor, goes to war, meets Sherlock, tangles with Moriarty and so on and so forth. But one day, he stumbles across a strange note similar to the one from the creepypasta, and he slowly begins to understand that he now has the choice of continuing to live in this made-up place in his head or of facing the evils that have befallen him in the real world.**


End file.
